


I've got a war in my mind

by paradis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blindness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, talk of stiles receiving the bite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradis/pseuds/paradis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Maybe,” Derek continues. “Maybe – if – the doctors said –” </p><p>“I know what the doctors said,” Stiles snarls. “They said <i>maybe.</i> They said <i>probably not.</i> They said no full recovery, Derek – that’s what they said.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've got a war in my mind

**Author's Note:**

> There are some triggers in this story:  
> -mentions of graphic violence (in the past)  
> -panic attacks 
> 
> if those trigger you I suggest probably not reading. 
> 
> This story came completely out of nowhere and was written in an hour, tops. It's unbetaed because I didn't have time to send it off to my lovely beta this time. I also didn't think it was really worth that much time. So any mistakes are mine, don't hesitate to point them out and I'll fix them!
> 
> Title is taken from Lana del Rey's 'Ride.'

“Will it fix me?” Stiles’ voice is shaky.

“Stiles…”

“Will it _fix me_?” Stiles demands, louder this time, and almost feels satisfied at the sharp intake of breath he hears, fear, anger, confusion in Derek’s gasp. He’s never heard so much venom in his own voice; he can only imagine Derek’s surprise.

“I don’t know.” 

“You’re _lying,_ ” Stiles spits, and he can almost picture the way Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, the way he shakes his head, and the hard look of anger in his eyes. 

“Probably not,” Derek finally says quietly. A burst of anger rises in Stiles’ chest and he squeezes his eyelids tight, so tight that he can see starbursts behind them, but when he opens them up again behind his bandages, there’s nothing.

Black.

Empty.

Blank.

Blind.

“Why _not_?” he shouts, feels like he should have the right to see Derek flinch, after all these years, after all this time. After all he’s done for Derek, he thinks Derek should be able to give him this _one_ thing. He doesn’t think he’s really asking for that much. He thinks it’s a fair trade. “Why not? It fixed Erica!” 

There’s silence, and Stiles can hear Derek shifting on his feet, hesitant, nervous. The nervous energy is in the air and Stiles feels like he can practically taste it. He thinks it’s amazing how much his other sense have kicked into gear when he lost this – when he _lost his sight,_ and he feels like he hears everything so much sharper, tastes everything so much sweeter. 

“It’s… It’s permanent,” Derek finally says, “Erica’s was… it was a part of her mind. Her brain. It wasn’t – it could be fixed, temporarily, and the bite recognized it for what it was, so it righted it when she turned.”

“I don’t understand,” Stiles whimpers. 

“When Scott got the bite,” Derek says slowly, “did his scars from before – his old scars – did they heal? Did they go away?” 

Stiles thinks of Scott, of the scar across his right knee from when he fell out of their tree house and scraped it, of the scar on his left eyebrow from where he got stitches that one time when they were ten. They’re both still there, both still a part of him. He bites his lip to block a scream of how unfair it is from escaping his lips. 

“Maybe,” Derek continues. “Maybe – if – the doctors said –” 

“I know what the doctors said,” Stiles snarls. “They said _maybe._ They said _probably not._ They said no full recovery, Derek – that’s what they said.” 

“Maybe if they start to heal,” Derek says quietly, “then we could try. If we research enough.” 

“Well I can’t research, can I?” Stiles asks him bitterly, rhetorically. “What with the _no vision_ and all.” 

“Stiles…” Derek sighs. 

Stiles shakes his head, steps forward and pushes against Derek. “Get out,” he says urgently, “Get out of my room, Derek. Get out of the _house._ I don’t want to see – hear you. I don’t want to feel you. I want you _out._ I _hate_ you,” Stiles screams, pushing and shoving against Derek. He knows Derek is strong than him, he knows that if Derek wanted to, he could stand his ground and stay right where he is, but instead, he’s letting Stiles push and shove against him, letting him push him over the threshold of Stiles’ bedroom, out of the room. Stiles slaps his palm against his chest and lets a sob loose.

“I hate you,” he says again, and fumbles for the doorknob. When he finds it, he steps back and slams the door shut. He leans against it, breathes deep and hard, hands on his knees, bent over and letting short gasps and sobs loose. 

It’s a panic attack rising in his chest, that same heavy weight he’s felt in his lungs since he woke up with bandages over his eyes and the doctors explained, _shrapnel in your eyes. Bandages to heal. Good chance you’re permanently blind. Prepare to make arrangements._ Instead of tamping it down, he slides down the door until he hits the floor and gasps, inhales short bursts of air that don’t do anything for him, and tries to focus on escaping the tight band around his chest. 

There’s pounding on the door the signals Derek never left. “Stiles, you’re having a panic attack. Stiles, let me in, let me help you – Stiles!” 

“No!” Stiles manages to say, rubbing at his chest. 

Derek pushes against the door, the knob turning and the door opening a few inches, but Stiles weight is blocking him from gaining entry. Stiles leans back harder against it, putting all his strength into keeping Derek out. 

When Derek gives up, Stiles is seeing spots behind his eyes again, the telltale sign that he’s inhaling nowhere near enough oxygen to keep him awake and kicking. He hears Derek through the cloud in his mind, hears him say, “I’m right here, Stiles. Breathe _with_ me. In and out, Stiles. Take it slow.” Stiles shudders and tries to inhale deeply. He exhales. He’s still shaking, there are still spots behind it eyelids, but he breathes in deep again, and hears Derek say, “That’s good, Stiles. You’re doing great.” 

Five minutes later, with Derek’s continuous encouragement on the other side of the door, Stiles is breathing normally again, the weight on his chest seeming to have lifted for the moment. There’s silence, so silent that Stiles thinks Derek left, until he hears an exhale of breath, the shift of weight that signals that Derek has sat down. 

Derek says, “I’m sorry.” 

Stiles laughs bitterly, angrily. “I don’t want your pity,” he spits out. 

“It’s not pity, Stiles,” Derek snaps. “I’m sorry because it’s _my_ fault. You never should’ve been out there in the first place. God,” he breaks off for a moment, and Stiles thinks he hears him swallow tightly. “When I found you, after the explosion. When I saw you lying there – I didn’t think you were _breathing._ Christ, Stiles, I was so relieved. Until I saw – until…” 

Stiles can imagine it, because Scott and his dad and Lydia have all told him. Told him about the blood dripping like tears from his eyes, told him about the many bandages it took to keep it from soaking through at first. They told him how he fought and cried and told them he just wanted to see, and kept trying to reach up and wipe the blood and tears out of his eyes. 

Stiles doesn’t remember it, but he can imagine it. 

There’s silence for a long time, Stiles lost in his thoughts, listening to Derek’s even breaths. Derek whispers, “You could still get it back. The next appointment isn’t for a while. There could be an improvement, Stiles.” 

“Or maybe there won’t,” Stiles counters. 

“What if there is?” Derek challenges. “Will you let Peter research it, to see if there’s a chance, then?” 

“You asked him to research it already,” Stiles states calmly. “You asked him if the bite would fix it in the first place.” 

Derek doesn’t say anything, but his silence is answer enough, and Stiles leans his head against the door, listening to Derek shift around on the other side. 

Stiles whispers, “I don’t want to be blind, Derek,” and feels the tears drip down his face, burn like fire. Stiles knows there’s a good chance there’s blood mixed in with them, because his eyes haven’t healed completely yet, and that he’s supposed to refrain from tears because it could hurt the healing process. “God. No one will – who would someone who’s blind? Who can’t _see_ them? You wouldn’t have any use for me anymore – the pack, I mean.” 

“Let me in,” Derek suddenly pleads. “Stiles, let me in. Please. Let me see you.” 

Stiles doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He pulls away finally, crawls back on the carpet until there’s enough room – he estimates – that Derek can swing the door open. Derek doesn’t hesitate in flinging it open and coming in. He walks over to Stiles, stoops down and places his hand in Stiles’, and pulls him up with Derek. He walks him over to the bed and pushes him down onto it. 

“Your bandages need changed,” he murmurs quietly. “Let me, Stiles. Please.” 

Stiles feels a shiver curl his spine when he feels Derek’s breath across his forehead, across his nose, and he nods. Derek disappears for a moment before returning with the gauze. He peels the tape off Stiles’ eyes slowly, careful not to pull, and Stiles feels like it’s a fresh breath when the rush of air hits his still closed eyes. It’s only for a moment, while Derek takes a wet cloth and wipes it around them gently, then dries them, and puts gauze back over Stiles’ eyelids.

Suffocating, Stiles thinks. The gauze feels suffocating. 

When he’s finished, when the gauze is taped back over Stiles’ eyes, Derek runs a thumb down Stiles’ cheek, traces it over the shape of Stiles’ lips, along his jawline. “I would want you,” Derek says shakily. “I always want you.” 

He slams his lips against Stiles’ brutal and bruising. It’s all teeth clacking and tongues twining, and Stiles’ gasps, kissing him back just as roughly. Derek licks into his mouth like he’s trying to taste every crevice and corner, runs his tongue along Stiles’ teeth, grips Stiles’ face in his hands and pulls him impossibly closer, and Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and squeezes, holding on for dear life; holding on for Derek’s strength. 

“Stiles,” Derek starts, and Stiles interrupts him with a frantic nod.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he says, “Yes, whatever you want, _yes,_ ” he says, and scrambles back on the bed, making room for Derek. Derek crawls up, crawls over Stiles until his knees are on either side of him, and he’s pressed against Stiles’ cock and leaning into Stiles’ thighs, and Stiles moans. “Yes,” he repeats, and lets Derek kiss him again, just as rough and tempting as the first time. 

Derek peels Stiles’ shirt off and kisses down his neck, bites against his throat, along his shoulders, down to his collarbone. Stiles can imagine the red skin, turning purple before Derek’s eyes – Stiles has always bruised so _easily;_ he’s just a mere human, Derek always reminds him. Derek keeps kissing, down, down, down, until he’s reaches the band of Stiles’ jeans, where he unbuttons them swiftly and pulls them down, along with his boxers. 

Stiles whimpers when Derek’s lips brush against his cock, light and all too shortly, before Derek’s moving on to kissing his hipbones, nipping the sensitive skin. “Derek, Derek, Derek – wait,” Stiles gasps, “Want – want to –” _see_ “ – feel you,” Stiles says, gripping Derek’s shirt, pulling him up. Derek lets Stiles guide him by the shirt until his face is right next to Stiles, and Stiles grips the hem of his tee and tugs upwards, pulling it over Derek’s neck, and throwing it aside. He runs his hands along Derek’s chest, feeling the firmness of muscles, over his arms, feeling the curl of Derek’s biceps, down, until his hands dip against Derek’s back, just skimming the edge of the curve of Derek’s ass, still hidden by his jeans. 

Stiles grinds against him and hears Derek’s sharp breath, right below his ear, against his skin, and does it again. He can hear the bed creaking and the sheets tearing. He can feel the mattress shifting with each thrust against Derek, can feel Derek’s breath ghosting warmly across his skin, and Derek’s fingers curling into Stiles’ hipbones, pressing hard enough to leave grape colored fingerprints in the morning, fingerprints that Stiles wants _desperately_ to be able to look into a mirror and see, but will have to settle for brushing his own fingers across to feel. 

“Derek,” he moans, and Derek nods, nose nuzzling against Stiles’ neck. 

“Anything,” Derek whispers in Stiles’ ear, and Stiles shudders. 

He runs a finger up, along Derek’s spine, until he reaches the spot between his shoulder blades. He imagines he can feel the difference in texture of skin, where it’s smooth and bare, and where Derek’s tattoo sits, black swirls of ink, just a little rougher than the skin that lies next to it. He imagines he can see Derek’s eyes when Stiles brushes his hands against it, wide with lust and need, temptation and joy. 

Derek moves down, until his lips are brushing against Stiles’ cock again, and Stiles clenches his fists into the sheets. “Let me,” Derek whispers against his skin, kissing the head just once. Stiles nods, jaw slack, and lets a moan tear out of his throat when Derek swallows him down. 

When Stiles comes, there are starbursts behind his eyelids again, his hands are in Derek’s hair, and his back arches completely off the mattress. He feels lighter than he has since he woke up, _with a good chance you won’t be able to see, full recovery is probably not possible._ Stiles feels like anything is possible when Derek pulls off his cock and kisses the skin of his hip, swirls his thumb against the grain of the hair on Stiles’ thigh, and waits, just waits for Stiles to come back to earth. “Derek,” he sighs, and then Derek is back above him, kissing the breath out of him, grinding down against Stiles’ thigh, until he comes in his jeans. 

He keeps kissing Stiles until his thrusts slow, and then he pulls away long enough to lie next to Stiles, wrap his arms around Stiles’ waist, and kiss the spot between Stiles’ shoulder blades. “ _I_ want you,” he repeats again. “Always, Stiles. Always.” 

Stiles’ grip on Derek’s forearm tightens and he swallows the lump in the back of his throat.

==

When the doctors pull the bandages off, Stiles can see faint light, the hint of shadows, and he squeezes Derek’s hand tight.


End file.
